Listening to the radio right now, Boomtown Rats playing I Don't Like Mondays, going through my pre-Pitchfork Music Festival ritual, putting on sunscreen, packing my iPhone accessories, going through my son's pills to make sure he's got enough to get him through the day (he takes about four different meds every day, some of them three times). Going to listen to samples of all of today's bands again so I don't miss anything I would like. About to pick up my son's best friend in a few minutes to head over to the train. It's a 15-20 minute ride, but the train stops just yards from the festival entrance.

This is my favorite weekend of the year. My son and I have been going to this festival together since he was 12 (his twin sister as well for most of those years). He's 19 now, but not much different. His buddy Max has been going with us for the last three years. They're great festival companions, even though they're both autistic. Maybe it's because they're autistic, which in their case manifests itself as walking encyclopedias on the subject of indy rock (and a dozen other subjects). They're both lacking a bit on the personal hygiene side, but by three this afternoon, everybody will smell like crap.

It's a glorious day, sunny, high seventies, a nice breeze blowing from the lake, 18 great bands to hear, plus three more at an after party a block away from the festival. It's great to be alive.